Headhunters

by John King

  ‘Will? Is that you?’

  Will turned and faced a woman with spiked jet-black hair and a thick red cardigan, a well-worn, multi-coloured shirt peeping through. His surprise must have registered. He tried to pin a name on the face.

  ‘I thought it was you. Happy New Year. You don’t recognise me do you? I was in your sister’s class at school. I came round your place a few times. Karen. Karen Eliot.’

  ‘I remember. You look different. It’s a long time since I last saw you, that’s all. You were a kid then.’

  ‘How’s Ruth these days? Haven’t seen her for ages.’

  ‘She’s alright. Living back round the old man’s at the moment. She broke up with her husband a year back. Took it hard, but you get over these things with a bit of time I suppose.’

  ‘I didn’t even know she was married.’

  ‘Bad news he was. Used to knock her about but nobody found out till she left him and now he’s done a runner. Ruth didn’t tell anyone because she knew he’d get his head kicked in. Left her with all the bills on the flat to pay when he legged it. She’s getting straight again. Must make you feel like nothing when you’ve been battered and then you’re forced to cough up for the honour. There’s a lot of rubbish around.’

  As they talked, Will discreetly checked the albums Karen was holding. U-Roy’s With Words Of Wisdom on top, and under that what looked like Prince Far I’s Free From Sin, judging from the thick red lines over a smaller black-and-white crisscross pattern on the edge of the cover. Not bad. A woman with taste. Nice body and a face with character. Classy album covers as well and they didn’t go cheap, classic reggae vinyl. He hadn’t found anything he wanted and was tempted to ask Karen if she fancied a coffee somewhere, a cup of coffee and a slice of cake. It was too early for the pub. But he bottled out, and instead she was saying she worked in The George three nights a week and if he came in later she’d make sure he drank for free. There was a late-night Moroccan cafe round the corner, so maybe they could have a coffee after. Then she looked all embarrassed and said she’d like to hear more about Ruth, stared at the floor, smiled a crooked smile, and was off to the counter to pay for the records. She turned back to say she hoped she’d see him later. When she went outside Will’s eyes followed her down the street.

  Carter cut up a Rover at the lights, pulling the furniture delivery van tight into the inside lane, his young assistant Ian, Boy Ian as Carter called him, raising his right hand to the mirror in a peace gesture, beating the wanker sign his work-mate was about to deliver. Ian was easy-going which meant he generally got lumbered with the heavy lifting when they were on a job together. Carter enjoyed directing operations, the hard graft never much more than a double bed that the customer had to assemble, though lugging the various parts up four or five flights of stairs wasn’t much fun.

  Ian was a heavy-built Irishman from Donegal, though he’d lived twenty-one of his twenty-two years in London. He was London Irish, a QPR boy with a Celtic top and cross round his neck, but went against the Paddy stereotype preferring dope to Murphy’s, jungle to diddlydaddly, ecstasy to whisky. He worked the cassette player as they went which suited Carter, slipping in some On U-Sound or old techno compilations. Carter specially liked Gary Clail’s Emotional Hooligan, heavy bass taking him back to when they were kids into reggae, dub, punk—following Will’s early interests and Pete Wilson’s readiness to lend out his albums. He liked the dog barking in the background, or whatever the sound was, probably a special effect. Bim Sherman was next. Funny how music reappeared. Everything went in circles.

  He kept meaning to knock together a tape of his own but never got round to it, deciding he’d get Will on the job, as the bloke had all the same records plus a thousand or so on top. Will was the man in the know. He thought about the emotion bit. Tricky that one, though if you were in Mango’s shoes then maybe there was a reason. It was sad how something like a missing brother stayed with you your whole life. Fucked things up badly. Mango had never been the same, though it could’ve been growing up responsible for the change. He hit the brake hard for a hunchback granny walking on to the zebra crossing not looking where she was going, glancing into the mirror at the Rover he’d cut-up, a big cunt behind the wheel staring back. He put his hand down the side of the seat and felt the sawn-off snooker cue tucked out of sight, ready for the bloke to try his luck. There was a dented skull waiting to happen.

  Then they were moving and he watched the Rover turn off, a nice motor worth a few bob, near enough vintage, pointing out a couple of women with kids in push chairs coming out of the bookies. He didn’t think kids were allowed in betting shops. Maybe they were getting kicked out or had been in to see the old man, begging for spare change. Kids shouldn’t be hanging around the bookies. Ian followed his gesture and Carter was saying the taller one was nice and well worth five minutes of his precious time, shame about the sprog, that the other bird was a bit iffy but so what. He’d fuck the arse off both of them given the chance. Ian just smiled and put in another tape, fast-forwarding to a mixture of didgeridoos and cranking metal, like the van was about to explode. Then the whole thing was taken over by some brand of psychedelic Eastern trance, Kurdish according to Ian, religious and full of nailed down sex. It was alright and made up for missing out on Bim Sherman. Ian started skinning up.

  While Harry sat on a front garden wall in Wandsworth with Dave and Bob from West London Decoration, banging his heels against bricks, waiting for the men inside to sort out the gas, Balti was down in Tooting breaking his back. He wasn’t in the mood for the verbal he was getting off Roy McDonald, a mouthy Belfast cunt who was going to get a brick rammed down his throat before the day was out. Balti decided on a break and set his load down, going round the back of the parked-up tippers where he could sit for a few minutes. He was shagged out. Like he was sick. Every muscle ached and his head was weighed down. There was this thud of drills from deep inside the building and he was dizzy. Then he was trying to keep his balance. He’d been on one long beano through Christmas and into the New Year, on the piss with Harry and any of the other lads who happened to be around. Harry was the top boy though. He loved his drink more than the rest of them. He could never keep up with the cunt. He tried, but failed. Harry said the lager washed away all your problems. Add a few beans courtesy of Mango and he was fucked.

  ‘What the fucking hell are you doing?’ McDonald was standing opposite, fag hanging out of his mouth, shit all over his donkey jacket, dried clay covering his boots. He spat his words and Balti looked for red flames.

  Balti wondered if McDonald was a devout Protestant. There’d been a lot about Ireland on the news, history and everything, stuff he didn’t understand because he never paid much attention to the details and couldn’t work out the logic involved. He didn’t care one way or the other, staring back at McDonald unable to speak. He had nothing worth saying. He ran his eyes towards the opening behind McDonald, the area of the site that was visible and empty of workers.

  ‘We’re behind enough as it is without you taking a fucking nap. You lazy cunts get paid on time and you want to sit around doing nothing. We’ve got schedules to keep. I’ve been watching you and you’re taking the piss. Get back to work or you’re out. This isn’t a fucking holiday camp.’

  Balti stood up slowly, moved forward with a humble expression and headbutted McDonald between the eyes. The two men were roughly the same size and the foreman liked to think of himself as a hard man; hard but fair, respected by the lads who worked for him. But Balti wasn’t watching the same video. McDonald rocked back against one of the lorries and a steel toecapped boot connected with his groin, pain racing through his stomach into his mouth, down the front of his coat. Balti pulled him forward and damaged the cunt’s nose with his knee. He hoped it was broken. Heard a crack.

  He stood and looked at the bloke half-conscious on the ground, breathing heavily. It was the surprise that made it so easy and there were no witnesses. For a second he thought about using a slab to smash McDon
ald’s skull in, picking up a shovel and killing the cunt for his lack of respect. But he wasn’t worth the aggro murder would bring. No way. You had to know when to stop. He was out of a job but McDonald wouldn’t get the old bill involved. Maybe he’d come looking, but Balti could handle that. What did he care? He didn’t need his nose rubbed in shit first thing in the new year. Like everyone else he just wanted a bit of respect. That was all. Respect was essential. Without it you were nothing. You might as well give up and top yourself if you didn’t have respect.

  ‘Any time you fancy your chances, you know where I am, you Irish cunt.’

  Balti kicked McDonald in the gut and went to collect his sandwich box and flask, walked to the car, and was soon driving past Tooting Bee tube towards Wandsworth Common. He smelt the fumes and felt sick, moving slow then fast, lumbered behind a bus, changing down a gear and accelerating on his way, pavements full of people, then empty, breathing slowly returning to normal. When he reached the common he parked and walked over to a bench, rich green grass stretching out in front of him, a black labrador in the distant hunched up and straining. Time to rest and calm down a bit, watching the traffic lights click red, yellow, green; double-deckers rolling slowly along, top decks full of pinprick faces; people going in and out of a parade of shops; a couple of wankers over by the pond hanging on to their fishing rods looking to catch a minnow.

  Carter was directing operations, carrying screws and a couple of planks, Ian bringing up the bigger parts of the bed. They’d already brought the mattress upstairs and a well-bred woman was flicking through the instruction manual. Carter was casting a critical eye over a fit figure showing off a pair of expensive slacks. He reckoned she was over forty. There were gold rings on her fingers and a couple of silver specks in nicely-groomed but fairly natural hair. She looked up and caught his eye, turning away quickly, something wicked on her mind. He reckoned there was a good chance of picking up a couple of points if he played the game in the right way. He would have to get rid of Ian for a while, but he was stoned and open to suggestion. It shouldn’t be too hard. When the woman went out of the room he had a quiet word.

  ‘Hurry up, my husband will be back soon,’ the woman gasped. ‘Come on you horny bastard. Faster.’

  Carter kept pumping away, the plastic cover they’d half pulled off the mattress rubbing against his knees. She was a right goer this one, but he didn’t fancy her old man opening the bedroom door and catching them on the job. He wasn’t getting anywhere though, so turned her round on to all-fours, trying a different angle. As he did his duty he looked around the room, a gold-framed photo of the woman in question standing next to a man in a black suit, an accountant or solicitor by the looks of him, two blond-haired, blue-eyed boys in front of their parents, smiling. Their mother was moaning and the delivery man servicing her ladyship was totting up the points. Two plus four made six and they were only a day and a half into the season. Four points would make it eight and he slipped his hand between the woman’s cheeks testing the ground. He didn’t really fancy the shift, but there were points on offer and Carter wanted to get a healthy lead established as soon as possible. Then he could relax.

  ‘Don’t do that,’ she ordered, sucking in her breath, a hand coming back to remove his finger.

  Carter was getting a bit bored, wishing he could finish and get down the cafe with Ian. His work-mate was a good boy, understanding the situation. Carter was hungry and it was time the delivery man delivered his load. He fancied a good fry-up and a nice mug of strong coffee. Meat for the gut and caffeine for the brain. Bacon and sausage smells hit home, imagination working hard, picturing the look on the faces of the rest of the lads when he broke the news. Total football. Johan Cruyff was the master, like that time out on the wing he’d taken the defender one way, back-heeled the ball through his own legs and off he went. The tradition moved on. There was no real beginning and end. There was the Gullit-Rijkaard-Van Basten mob. Now there was Bergkamp-Overmars-Kluivert. It was in the blood and the rest of the boys would be gutted. There was a tank in a corner of the bedroom, tropical fish unaware of their origins. At least they were free of predators and fed regularly. That’s the way Carter looked at the situation. Next to the tank was another photograph, in an antique frame that must’ve been worth a bit, two girls in sixties fashion. It was probably dog woman and a sister. They were wide-eyed, female versions of the two young boys. One of them held a hoop, both with ribbons in their hair, though the picture was black and white so he didn’t know what colour. There was the same expression on their faces.

  ‘Come on, don’t slow down,’ the woman was panting and Carter made the effort, concentrating on the job in hand, feeling the woman shudder, trying to forget about the bacon, his mates waiting down the pub, Ian in the cafe shovelling down egg on toast, Harry and Balti, Mango and Will the record collector sitting in The Unity, drinks lined up, having a crack, a good laugh, enjoying the show. A flash of inspiration hit the league leader, the kind of thinking that sorts the winners from the losers, championship material, the mark of genius, excitement hitting home, total fucking football. Total fucking football.

  As the woman finished Carter felt the tension reach boiling in his groin, quickly withdrew, flipped her over and moved fast so he shot over her left breast then finished off in her mouth. His thoughts were with the manoeuvre, the distance between the first muscle spasm, the quick withdrawal and attempts to hold back, losing it a bit halfway, then hitting the jackpot. Calculations were all important and his tactics worked. He rolled over next to a satisfied mother and wife, the smell of pine from the bed all around them. They were strangers again in a clearing deep inside a Scandinavian forest with the trolls and lumberjacks and herds of reindeer. It had been a near thing, breaking the flow and diverting his attention, numbing the physical satisfaction. But he’d done well. Fucking brilliant. It was a three-pointer and the rest of the lads would be well impressed. The woman next to him laid her head on his chest. He couldn’t wait to see the faces of his mates when he broke the news.

  ‘You nutted him?’ Harry asked, shaking his head. ‘Nice one Balti, can’t slag you off for the reasoning behind the action, but a job’s a job you know.’

  ‘He had it coming. I know it’s not too rosy workwise at the moment, I mean it never fucking is, but he should’ve kept his trap shut. He doesn’t pay enough to talk to me like that. He wouldn’t do it off the site. No cunt talks to me like that. I should’ve bricked him as well. Should’ve killed the cunt. Who the fuck does he think he is?’

  ‘Never mind all that. Drink up and I’ll buy you another.’

  ‘I can still get a round in. I’m not a beggar. Not yet anyway.’

  Harry watched Balti go to the bar and order two pints of Fosters. Strange that the dream he’d woken up with was so positive, and now this. He tried to make sense of the beach scene, the kids fishing and everything. He must be getting his ideas mixed up. Usually he could work out his dreams by the end of the morning, often much quicker. It was either sorting out the past or, now and then, seeing something in the future. Maybe it was wishful thinking. Balti sipped his lager as he waited for the second pint. This morning Balti had been good as gold, up with the sun and everything, then a few hours later he’s giving his boss a hiding. Maybe it was down to McDonald, fucks knows, though it must’ve been a bit of Balti as well. But it didn’t matter, because they were mates and Balti’s version was all that counted. If the bloke came down looking for trouble they’d give him another helping. Harry went back to the beach. Considered the tree snake.

  ‘I think I’ll shoot off after this one,’ Balti said when he’d returned with the drinks. ‘Go home and polish off a bottle of gin then start the new year again tomorrow. What a way to kick off.’

  ‘Stay here and we’ll have a drink. The others’ll look out for me. It’s a bit slow anyway. They’re still fucking about with the gas.’

  They stayed in the pub most of the afternoon, drinking at a relaxed pace. Harry was pushing a visit
to Balti Heaven back home, but the Balti king was standing firm, leaving well alone. It was a question of will-power, something he had to prove to himself. He also needed to shift some weight if he was going to get anywhere in the league. Harry didn’t care about such niceties, half a stone lighter than his mate. A midday session was just what Balti needed to forget about mass unemployment, McDonald just a stack of clothes with a pool of shit inside. So what if Balti didn’t have the pleasure of killing himself hauling bricks. There were other things he could do. He was sick of labouring. He’d done it on and off since leaving school. Picking up the wage packet and out on the piss, down the football, feeding his face, keeping the curry houses going. It was a clean break. Better than a New Year celebration. The lager was doing its job and Harry talked him through with some expert advice. Life was good with a gallon of drink tucked in your gut. Harry was no mug. He could see the present as well as the future.

  Carter and Boy Ian were making the most of the delay, sitting in the van behind Baker Street tube. The next delivery was due in half an hour and they were ahead of schedule. The man buying the large double bed wasn’t due home till four. They’d tried him on the mobile but got an answerphone. Despite the fry-up, Carter was hungry, deciding it must’ve been that woman building up his appetite. She was a raver and suddenly keen for another portion, but he’d had to leg it. He couldn’t leave Ian hanging round like a cunt all day and her husband was due back. She was mad. One minute she wanted him out, the next she wanted him to stay. It didn’t matter to him, but she had a lot to lose. He couldn’t work women out sometimes. Carter had a job to do, and it wasn’t like he was going to add to his points total. She’d asked him to ring her and he was considering the request. He could put himself through the grinder—she’d offered to pay for a hotel room in the West End and obviously had the wedge—but the most he could hope for was an extra point, unless he saw to her handbag, and that wasn’t being realistic. He would have to believe in the possibility of chalking up a bonus point before he called.